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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22938478">A broken city and a perfect soul</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarvieKuuun/pseuds/HarvieKuuun'>HarvieKuuun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Real Person Fiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:40:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22938478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarvieKuuun/pseuds/HarvieKuuun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A journey into the demented mind of the psychopathic killer, Charlie Spresso. A commission for $1,000 from Jaden Sparks. Commissions are open!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A broken city and a perfect soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>He was broken. So, so broken. Or, maybe the world was. Yeah, that's it. The world's broke. It's not me. It's them.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>It's not me...</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Not me...</em>
</p><p>The February air was frigid, especially from the rooftop of the FIB building. It was the type of cold that penetrated deep within you, going into your bones, your very soul. The quiet of the night seemed particularly sinister. The silence made it seem like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for the pin to drop. </p><p>And Charlie Spresso would drop that pin. Or, more accurately, body.</p><p>Charlie stood on the top of the FIB building, staring down at the bright lights of the city. It all seemed so small from up here, all the troubles and tribulations of modern life. This point of view made it easy for him to see it. The cracks in the world. This point of view allowed Charlie to see the world for what it really was: A misshapen mess of parts, forced together into a structure vaguely resembling reality. It was a sham, all of it. A broken world for broken people. And they couldn't see it. Only he could.</p><p>That made him the least broken. It made him perfect, in a way. The only one of the toys to see its flaws. The only one able to perceive what was truly wrong with the world. And the only one able to fix it.</p><p>Beside him, his package struggled. Charlie glanced over at it. It bore the form of a man, but it wasn't. It bore none of the passion. None of the drive. No, it was an empty husk, fueled only by the basest of emotions and pleasures. It only stumbled aimlessly in the dark, hoping for something to be it's next entertainment, it's next distraction. There was no life in that figure, only the barest hints of desire to move it along.<br/>The package struggled again, tears leaking from its eyes. Pathetic. As if that little hint of emotion would move Charlie. He was the savior of this world. Using his divine instrument, he would chip away at the corruption, the brokenness. He would dismantle it, piece by piece. Destroy it in its entirety. Only then would the world be free. Only then would it be true.</p><p>Still, it had been easy. Disgustingly easy. Drive around. Find someone. Pull a gun and force them into his car. No one cared for this figure, this shadow of a man. No one would come to its aid. It was just another husk in a hollow world. Meaningless. Pointless. Unlike him.</p><p>He didn't know its name. He didn't know its story. Such details were unimportant. It was just another piece to him, as it should be. Its only use, its only value, was what he could get out of it. And what he could get was satisfaction. The satisfaction, if slight, of taking out a corrupted piece of a corrupted reality.</p><p>Well then. It was time. The night waited for its sacrifice, for the daily offering of blood to the city of a million sins. And he would not disappoint. Brandishing his knife, Charlie moved closer to the bound package.</p><p>His approach caused it to ramp up its hysterics, trying its best to push the weight of its emotion onto Charlie. But Charlie would not be swayed. He knew that it was just an attempt an emulation, a soulless being trying to act like a person. He would not be fooled. He would not be tricked. Too long had he gone along with the farce, too long had he lived in a defective society claiming to be a utopia. No longer. No more tricks. No more illusions. Only cold, hard reality.</p><p>And it seemed like reality was too much for his package to take. For fun, Charlie removed the gag with his knife, cutting its cheek in the process. The faker's blood trickled down its face, mixing with the copious number of tears that it was producing. Perhaps it was more proficient a fake then Charlie had given it credit for, to be able to produce such lifelike blood. Oh well, no matter. <br/>The package cried even harder as it was injured and tried pleading for its pathetic existence. The words flowed over Charlie, washing through his mind. He saw them for what they were. Fake. All fake. This... thing cared not for whether it lived or died. Its life was meaningless, as was its death. As was all life and death, in the end. Only he mattered. </p><p>Well, that wasn't precisely true. In a way, even this pitiful entity served some purpose. Through him. He would give it a brief spark of meaning in the darkness of its inconsequential life. He would be the one that would make it something, make it noteworthy, even if it was only for their destruction by the hands of the hero.</p><p>Charlie twisted his knife around in his hands, thinking about how to perform the removal. There was as many ways to remove corruption as there were stars in the sky, but for today he was thinking something flashy. Something that would really send a message. Something... messy. </p><p>However, it was honestly quite difficult to be messy. A lot of effort went into making a crime scene so disgusting as to provoke a reaction from even the most hardened of law enforcement. As the hero, he didn't have that kind of time. He had things to do, people to see. A world to save. So, why not let something do the work for him? Gravity was a great assistance, after all. And he could still have his fun beforehand. No one would be able to tell.</p><p>While he was pondering, and ignoring the pitiable sobbing of his captive, Charlie idly went through the pockets of the husk. A wallet and a phone, as per normal. How original. Perhaps it was too much to expect from such a being, but there was no originality to be found even in its possessions. Truly, this thing was an uninspired mistake. </p><p>Well, time was wasting. Perhaps it would have some character in death, at least. Charlie doubted it, but it was a possibility, if a slim one. Charlie swung his knife around one more time, grabbing the being by its shoulders. After one last look into its lifeless eyes, he quickly slashed the blade through the things throat. It started to gurgle on the blood, which quickly fountained out and onto its bland clothes. </p><p>With a sigh, Charlie shoved the soon-to-be corpse off the roof. Perhaps its splatter would be inspirational, at least.</p><p>As almost an afterthought, he went through the wallet he had retrieved from the being. Inside was an ID, proudly declaring it to be a citizen of Los Santos, for all that was worth. His eyes wandered to the name displayed.</p><p>Jeff Waters.</p><p>Huh. A meaningless name, for a meaningless soul.</p><p>Charlie left the scene, not bothering to look over the edge at the result of his actions.</p><p>He had work to do.</p><p> </p>
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